


The Last Tree in the Greenwood

by Muffinworry



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:02:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21919537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffinworry/pseuds/Muffinworry
Summary: A White London myth for the holidays
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	The Last Tree in the Greenwood

Somewhere in the woods, down near the silver river, there is a tree.

It’s not a particularly tall tree, nor particularly beautiful.

What it is, is green.

The woods weren’t always dark and deep. Once upon a time, a very long time ago indeed, the people found a spring of bright, clear water on a soft green hillside. They called it the Sijlt in their language, because it shone silver in the sunlight. Where it flowed down a mossy bank and emerged as a broad river, they realized the position was a good one: easily defensible, plentiful game. More than that, it was beautiful, and they were a people who valued beauty as much as they valued battle. They built their settlement there, and secured it with stone gates carved with curling and fantastical guardians. And they called it London, but nobody now alive knows what that meant.

Names don’t always carry meaning.

London grew into a prosperous market town, and then a trading centre, and then a great city. It was famous for its temples, where you could light candles or pray for blessings, or watch prisoners be sacrificed. It was known for its festivals too, where you could drink sweet spiced wine and eat scalding hot pastries, and have your pocket picked, or your choice of beauties at the renowned brothels, no matter what your inclination. And it was famous for its fighters, for its prized white stallions, and its archers, and its sorcerers who could crack the earth under the enemy’s feet.

The Londoners traded goods and knowledge and hostages with the worlds through the doors. The Red World, Arnes, was weaker in magic, but richer in grain and grape. The Black World, Vitar, sent their scholars to learn Maktahn magic, and vice versa. People being people, the black-eyed scholars often mingled with their Maktahn or Arnesian hosts, and the babies born of such union were considered highly lucky. Born with one normal eye and one black, they seemed to be able to access a wholly new type of magic, and they were quickly invited to serve the crown. 

The first inkling they had in Makt of something going wrong was the sudden recall of all travellers from Vitar. By then, it was already too late. The Black World, never eager to share any vulnerability with its battle-loving neighbours, had kept their magic’s growing instability a secret. By the time they were forced to ask for help, the core of magic at the heart of their world was already in a critical state. It began to consume the world, slowly at first, but moving inevitably forward like a landslide. Makt took some refugees, but as Arnes reacted with panic and sealed its gates, Makt was forced to conclude that it didn’t have the resources to support them all. As overcrowded London began to starve, the populace turned on those it blamed; anyone with the tell-tale black eyes of Vitar. The half-breed Antari were nearly wiped out by the time the city managed to stop the tidal wave of voracious magic that was surging through the gates.

Closing the gates was done, but at a terrible cost. The king and queen died, as did most of the court magicians. Earthquakes and tremors shook the land, cracking the ancient palace foundations. Future monarchs would rule from the only tall building still standing in the city centre: the half-ruined cathedral. The magic of Makt became overstretched, thin and pale, consumed to near extinction by the hungry people. The Sijlt became sluggish, choked with bodies. It froze.

The wood died.

Look closer.

There is one tree which might still be green if you scratched away the grey bark with your fingernail

Somewhere in the worst part of the city, a baby is being born, a boy with one eye of black and one of leafy green. He hasn’t yet begun to fade. One day he’ll find the tree that’s more than it seems, and one day he’ll sleep under it.  
He’s not a particularly tall man, nor particularly beautiful. 

What he is, is the king


End file.
